Crossing the Line
by AJ Neri
Summary: Brooke and Peyton transgress the boundaries of their friendship. Will they be their own downfall?
1. The Other Side

**A/N: This is my very first piece of fanfiction. I've watched most of the first season and now I'm just starting season two, so I haven't really been able to get into the characters' heads, especially Brooke's. Apologies if their voices are a bit off. Nonetheless, feedback is much appreciated!**

"Our parents think we're on a field trip. I can't just relax and enjoy this."

"Define 'field trip'."

Sighing, I prop myself up on my elbows. We're on the most crowded beach in Southern California. The white sand is specked with umbrellas of every colour and the bodies are gleaming with the ocean. The air is potent with adolescent pheromones. And all I can think about is Lucas back at Tree Hill, being his usual sullen self.

"Come on, Goldilocks, lighten up. Look at the hotness on this beach. How can you even think about your dad when you've got _this_?"

"That sounds a little gross, Brooke."

Brooke rolls her eyes and pushes her sunglasses up onto her head. With the sun shining down like it is, I can see the patterns in her irises. She fixes me with a steady gaze and her telltale eyebrow slowly forms an arch. Suddenly, I feel a sharp smack on my arm.

"Ow! What was that for?"

"Stop thinking about Lucas."

I don't even know how to respond, so I sputter out some nonsensical words and shift my attention to the shoreline. The froth on the glassy waves spills over and stains the sand a light brown colour. Moments later, the sand reverts back to its normal shade. I wish Lucas's hold on me would fade as easily as that.

"Look, Peyton, he's trampled over your heart way too many times. _Both_ our hearts, actually. I know you dig the whole sombre, brooding thing, but the sooner you let him go, the sooner you can move on—to bigger, better things. Like, say, that guy with the amazing abs." Brooke's French-manicured nail dead ends at a guy in bright orange surf shorts. His hair is bleached blond and his arm hangs loosely around a surfboard stuck in the sand. I hate him already.

Sensing my irritation, Brooke withdraws her finger. "Okay, not your type. But look at the number of guys here. This beats shopping on Rodeo Drive. Speaking of which, even if we don't find you a summer fling, we're going home with the tiniest bikinis in SoCal and there's nothing you can do about that."

"Fine, you win," I respond flatly, sinking back down onto the sand. I know Brooke's just trying to give me a boost, but her usual plan of boy-hunting and shopping isn't really what I want now. What I want is a quiet evening with zero drama, except for the kind that comes on TV, but something tells me we're going to have three solid days of everything but that. Brooke had so better hope I'm wrong.

--

It's 8 PM. My feet are encased in a pair of fuzzy bunny slippers and a pint of Ben & Jerry's is dripping moisture onto my thigh. The tiny screen in front of me crackles every ten seconds and someone gets their body sliced in two with jagged lines. Brooke's cousin's apartment is no Beverly Hills hotel.

"So, Kendra told me earlier that there's a bonfire party in a while. We should totally—" Brooke's voice cuts off abruptly and I'm immediately conscious of how pathetic I look. I mean, I have my down-days but I've never really been one to break out the ice-cream therapy and bemoan my love life—or rather, the lack thereof—in front of the idiot box. Apparently Brooke notices this sudden transformation of behaviour too, because she's all concerned expressions and sympathetic noises.

"Sweetie, you're wearing bunny slippers."

"I know."

"Is it really that bad?" She sinks down next to me and places a hand on my back.

I blow out a breath and rest my head on her shoulder. Fresh from the shower, she smells like peaches and comfort.

"You know," she says, "there is an upside to this whole Lucas fiasco."

"Enlighten me, O Wise One."

"Us. Us being stronger than ever before. I know you're my best friend, I've always known that, but the Lucas thing was like a test. Well I think we've passed it and it's made us … more real, you know? We're not just best friends anymore—we're more than best friends. I don't know what's better than best, but we're it. They should put us in the dictionary."

I'm not even looking up at Brooke, but I can feel her smile. She gives me a squeeze and I feel my own smile stretching out across my face. Her hand is warm against my back, and for the first time in weeks, I feel my heart beat with something other than dejection. It feels good.

"Thank you," I murmur.

"So enough of this mope fest already. The sun is down and the party's about to start. P. Sawyer, you're going to shake that thang until morning comes."

"Did you just say 'thang'?"

"Bite me, Blondie."

"Only if you ask nicely."


	2. Tactics

My pulse is pounding like a million pairs of stilettos clicking against a marble floor. A few feet away, the bonfire is flirting with the endless sky and Peyton is chatting with a really cute guy. I've got two on my hands as well, but I can barely focus on what they're saying. What Peyton doesn't know is that I dragged her butt out here not just to get her mind off Lucas, but for my own selfish means, too. The past few weeks have been insanely hard, so I figured I'd get us as far away from Tree Hill and its very own soap opera as possible. If not for Peyton's sake, then at least for my own sanity.

"You've got a really great smile," one of the guys says, nodding to himself as if he's approving of his own comment.

"Yeah, you're really pretty," the other beefhead chips in.

Too pretty to entertain your lame asses. "I'm also really thirsty. Do you think you can get me a drink?"

I watch as they scurry off before skirting around to the other side of the bonfire. Peyton has her back to me and from this angle, the flames are throwing shadows on her, bringing out the gentle outlines of her slim body. She's wearing one of my short denim skirts and the bottom of her tank top barely meets the top of the skirt, revealing a sliver of skin. Oh god, why am I noticing this again?

I grab a bottle of beer from the cooler next to my feet and take a sip. The cool liquid washes through my body, stilling the heat wave now coursing through my veins. My heart's still thumping away, though. When I thought of this fabulous plan two weeks ago, I had the big picture in sight: Tell Peyton about all the crazy things I've been feeling lately—before my self-control snaps and I end up jumping her in the hallway at school. Now that I'm here, I have no freakin' clue what to do. I can't just throw it in her face. She'll panic and I'll end up losing my best friend.

Stepping closer to Peyton, I start eavesdropping on their conversation.

"A bunch of us are planning to check out this old house tomorrow night. It's supposed to be haunted." Oh come on, P. Sawyer, don't tell me you're falling for _that._

"Don't tell me you really think it's haunted," Peyton remarks incredulously. That's my girl.

"Nah, but it'll be fun. After we scope out the place we're gonna head down to a club. You should come."

Peyton hesitates. "I don't know. I'm here with my friend … Haunted houses aren't really her thing."

Hold up, I think I've got a light bulb moment. I sidle up to Peyton and wrap my arm around her shoulders.

"Actually, it sounds fun. Count us in."

"Really?" Peyton stares back at me.

"Sure, why not? As long as your friends are as cute as you." I flash the guy a flirty smile.

--

Finally. Peyton rolls over onto her side, still breathing steadily. I slip out of the cramped bed and tiptoe out of the room. My back hurts from keeping it ramrod straight, hugging the edge of the bed so I wouldn't come into contact with Peyton's bare limbs. I've got amazing discipline, really. So I can't resist buying a Jimmy Choo or two, whatever. I should be given a medal for losing this many nights' worth of beauty sleep just to avoid touching Peyton. God, the bags under my eyes are _monsters._ I'm going to have to load up the concealer tomorrow.

I shuffle into the living-room. Peyton's purse is just where she left it. I pick it up and start rummaging until I find a crumpled piece of paper. Gotcha, Beach Boy.

Cell phone in hand, I begin dialling the numbers on the paper.


	3. Out

Brooke Davis, you're a genius. A certified genius.

I can't believe I'm trudging through a dingy little house, completely ruining my brand new pair of wedges while a group of giggling girls and leering guys stumbles around making stupid remarks.

My foot catches on a piece of wood and I groan inwardly. Maybe I shouldn't have been so quick to set up this whole thing. Not only is the heat making my hair frizz, but I'm getting so peeved that I'm losing track of tonight's goal.

Just keep moving. We'll be in and out in no time, and hopefully Peyton won't be as freaked out as my worrying brain tells me she's going to be. I trip over another piece of wood and this time, I let out a curse.

"Hey, I'm sorry about this," Peyton says, laying her hand on my arm. "I didn't think it'd be so nasty."

In that one second that she touches me, I feel as if her hand is leaving a searing imprint on my skin. Shockwaves shoot straight to my gut and I feel somewhere between ill and elated. "It's not your fault. I agreed to come on this little trip." Because I'm a total dumbass, I think to myself. This house is nowhere near haunted. It's just a dirty pile of dust, wood and body odour. How am I supposed to seduce Peyton while smelling like Eau de Old People?

The light from the torches that the guys are carrying starts to fade a little, so we hurry after them. I'm going to be barefoot by the time we get out of this wreck. As we make our way down a wide corridor, I remember what Matt, the beach boy, told me. I can see the old oil painting hanging on the wall and beyond that, a series of doors. Just as we had agreed, Matt stops the procession.

"Okay, how about a dare?" He rubs his hands together as if he came up with this plan all by himself. "We go into these rooms alone—or if you're a wuss, in pairs—and we'll see who lasts the longest."

"Dude, if this is your big masterplan to make out with Maddy, just say so," one of the guys says dryly.

"Shut up, dipshit. We'll see how long you last. People have died in here."

"Oh Maddy, protect me!"

They snigger and shove each other around before finally entering the rooms. How come I've never noticed how lame boys can be? I can't believe I'm saying this, considering my track record, but if there's only one reason to swear off boys, this would be it. I roll my eyes and push a door open.

Inside, it's a little creepier than I thought it would be. It's incredibly small and strangely free of dust bunnies, but the furniture is ancient and creaking. So much for setting the mood.

Peyton slowly seats herself on the massive bed. Without warning, it caves under her weight and the centre drops out from underneath her. She lets out a shriek and bolts off it, tripping over herself and landing in my arms. She starts laughing.

All I can do is smile weakly when I think of what I'm about to do.

--

"I don't think we can go to the club looking like this."

Brooke frowns at the dust on my jacket. "Guess not. I can barely walk in these things anymore. Good thing Daddy let me have his credit card."

We're sitting on the floor, careful not to touch anything with our hands. This room actually smells a little better than the rest of the house.

"So how long do we have to stay in here?" I ask.

"Um, I think I heard Matt say about half an hour."

Half an hour. Okay. Half an hour on the floor of a dilapidated house with no light and no breeze. Fine, I can deal. I'll just focus on my breathing and _not_ think of the beams collapsing or the floorboards giving way. Nope. Mind over matter. Claustrophobia is just me being irrational.

"Or at least that's all we're going to go for. I'm not staying in this place any longer than that," Brooke adds.

Is it me or is it really hot in here? My jacket feels a little tight. I shrug it off and drop it into my lap.

"Um, as long as we're here … I think I need to tell you something, Peyton."

I look up at Brooke. Her eyes are almost glittering in the dark. I can feel the tension emanating from her body. Her lips are drawn into a tight line and she's struggling to hold my gaze. Oh god, maybe I can't deal after all.

--

Concentrate. Just look her in the eye and tell her. Be honest. She's your best friend; she's not going to push you away and run screaming. I had no idea it could be this hard to keep my eyes on her face. All she's wearing now is a sheer tank top. I've seen her in nothing but a bra, but now, this delicate piece of fabric is shaving inches off my self-restraint. My heart gives an exaggerated thump.

"Well, I …"

"Brooke, what is it?"

I shake my head in an attempt to stall and to clear the tantalizing images from my mind.

"I really don't know how to say this. I don't want to scare you, but I can't keep it to myself any longer."

Peyton turns to me, concern registering in her hazel eyes. She takes both my hands in hers and does that thing where she silently pushes me to just spit it out. Her thumb begins rubbing the top of my hand and my words slide back down my throat. The heat is unbearable. Coupled with the warmth of her body, I feel like crying out for mercy. Still keeping mum, she drops my hands and places her right hand on my thigh. So not helping, P. Sawyer.

We're sitting here, face to face, just me and my best friend. Peyton Sawyer, my best friend. The girl I've always loved but never thought I would ever want, not like this, not in this maddening, inexorable, can't-think-can't-talk, god-I-just-want-to-touch-you-right-_there_ way. My blood is fuelled by lust, rushing through every inch of my body like a forest fire, completely destroying any semblance of rational thought or sanity. It's disconnecting my brain from the rest of my body. I don't even know where we are anymore, or what I planned to say. But deep inside me, all I can feel is three words fighting to be released. Three words that will tell her everything. Three words that will convey how much my body aches for the tips of her fingers, how much pain and pleasure have twisted into an inseparable mess and how she's the only one who can amplify that, make it hurt and please at the same time.

I meet her gaze dead-on. I summon everything I have. And I say it.

"I want you."


	4. North Star

Have you ever been to a concert where the band is completely awful and they're screaming and your ears are ringing with numbness, but you can't look away and you remain nailed to the spot, staring up at them with your eyes as wide as tennis balls?

That's kind of what I'm feeling right now. The silence is raining blow upon blow on my ears and I think I've just about lost control of all my basic motor skills. I don't know how to begin to process this.

--

I screwed it up. Peyton's staring at me with a look I've never seen before. She doesn't look horrified, so I guess that's a good thing. But other than that, I think I may have just sent her straight into a coma. This is definitely a first for me.

But I've come too far to just sit here until we age and become a permanent fixture in this room. I clear my throat.

The sound jolts Peyton out of her stupor. I brace myself.

--

"Uh …"

My body feels like it's a million miles away. And Brooke's is too close for comfort.

I feel suffocated. My clothes are constricting me, crushing my lungs. Frantically, I take a gulp of air. This is ridiculous. I have never had an anxiety attack like this.

"Peyton, calm down." Brooke's voice reaches out to me, pulling me back from the edge. "I didn't mean to dump that on you like that. It just came out."

I hazard a glance in her direction. Her eyes are warm, undemanding. She scoots back a couple of inches to give me room. Why the hell did I react like that? She's my best friend, for god's sake, and I'm acting like a child.

"No, I'm sorry. I just … It took me by surprise, that's all. I, um, I guess I'm still processing this."

"Oh. Okay." Her voice is heavy. I know she's trying to hold back the disappointment, but she's never been that good at hiding her emotions.

Tentatively, I grasp her hand with both of mine. "Brooke, look at me. I'm just telling you that I need some time, okay? It's kind of a big deal." I crack a grin. "You always did know how to make a dramatic announcement."

She lets out a small laugh and my body sags with relief. I feel like I need a map or a compass, something telling me where to go from here. Is there even a logical way to figure this out? Some mathematical equation that will lead me to an irrefutable answer? I vaguely remember something about constants. Constants, right. Something that is fixed, unchanging. What's the constant in this situation?

A slow smile pulls at my lips as the answer dawns on me. What's the constant? Brooke. Brooke is the constant. No matter what happens, I'm not losing her.

--

Well, it turns out that Matt is a class-A asshole. He and his friends ditched the creepy little house, leaving Brooke and I to fumble through the darkness. Somehow, we make it to the beach. The night air blows the dust off my jacket and surges through our lungs, a welcome relief from the confines of that tiny room.

It feels odd, though, not having Brooke's arm hooked through mine. We haven't said a word for far too long. The gravity of Brooke's confession weighs heavy on my shoulders and the short-lived relief dissipates into the foreboding silence. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Brooke dragging her feet, her eyes trained on the sand and her entire demeanour glummer than I ever thought possible. Look at her, she's supposed to be the hottest cheerleader in Tree Hill, the most positive person I know, but just because I haven't responded, she's looking like she just got shot down by the latest stud in town.

It's kind of cute, really.

I halt in my tracks. "Why don't we just sit here?"

"Um, okay."

We sit down beside each other and watch the black waves roar and crash.

"Long day, huh?" she ventures, faking a smile.

"Thanks to you," I tease.

Brooke's expression instantly flashes with hurt and I feel my heart constrict in my chest. "I'm sorry," I say quickly. "I didn't mean that."

Hugging her knees, Brooke trains her eyes on the invisible horizon. She looks vulnerable. Almost defeated.

"You're cold. Come here." I pull her to me and wrap my arm around her back, rubbing her goosebumped arm with my hand. There's only one jacket between the two of us, so I do my best to keep her warm.

We stay like that for several minutes and finally, her infamous Davis impatience strikes through.

"Peyton …"

"I know."

"I'm not sure that you do. This is really confusing for me."

"It's a bit confusing for me too," I say gently. "But you have to know that I'm not going to just ditch you, okay?"

"I know you won't," she whispers. A wistful smile lingers on her lips and she turns back toward the ocean.

The way she's sitting, she looks so little, like back when we were only ten. The breeze ruffles her thick, dark hair and I can smell the scent of her favourite shampoo. I remember everything we ever did together. Trick-or-treating, kissing practices, pulling pranks on the mall's old security guard, skinny dipping for the first time … Her holding me when I found out my mother had just died. She was so patient that day, stroking my hair and telling me that she would help me through it all. She would be my North Star, she said. I was surprised she knew anything about astronomy.

It's strange how you can know someone for years, but all it takes is a simple revelation to make you see that person in a whole new light. Tonight, the sky is starless and the moonlight is feeble, but I feel like I'm seeing Brooke for the first time. _Really_ seeing her.

I lace my fingers through hers and turn her around to face me. "You're my North Star, Brooke."

The smile on her face pierces through the night, incandescent and filled with what I can only describe as wonder. It radiates through my body and for once, I feel completely content. Safe.

As my heart trembles in my ears, she leans forward and kisses me on the lips. The softest touch I've ever felt, brushing over my lips like velvet, cool and searing with nervous trepidation and untrammelled passion. She demands more and I give in, grasping at her hair as she slips a hand beneath the back of my shirt.

Tonight, I'm not surprised at how right this feels.


	5. Coming Back Down

My arm is asleep. I think I'm supposed to be asleep. Was I drinking last night? I don't feel like throwing up. I just feel woozy, but it's the good kind of woozy, like I've been dancing all night and now I'm just floating in a bubble of blissful exhaustion.

Something tickles my neck.

I turn my head and try to look down, but my chin bumps into a mass of curly blond hair. Peyton?

The entire night comes rushing back to me, all of it, from the stupid house to my tactless revelation and … the kiss. I kissed Peyton. And she …

I stare down at her long, golden eyelashes. She definitely kissed me back.

The biggest, goofiest smile you could ever imagine takes over my face. I'm smiling so hard, it feels like I'm getting a facelift. I wiggle my fingers and lift them up to the sunlight. Everything feels so warm and soft, kind of like my favourite cashmere sweater.

Peyton stirs and I quickly slide my limp arm out from under her back. She curls up on her side and sighs contentedly. I prop myself up on one elbow so I can look at her, retracing the delicate lines of her face and renewing my memory of them. I still can't believe she didn't bolt last night. I fully expected her to push me back and give me that horrified look she saves for very special occasions. I expected her to start babbling, to explain why it was thirteen kinds of weird and wrong. I expected her to pat me on the back sympathetically and apologise because this isn't her thing, but she'll always love me as a friend.

Not for a second did I expect to wake up with her in my arms. And I definitely didn't expect her eyes to flutter open and her hand to reach out and touch my cheek lazily as if she's done this a million times before.

"Hey, you," she says, her voice still a little hoarse with sleep.

"Hey yourself."

I bend down slowly. Is she going to freak out now, now that the sun's out and it's sobering her up, assaulting all her senses and telling her that last night was no more than a spur-of-the-moment thing?

Closer. Closer still. I can see the flecks of green in her hazel eyes. My lips brush over hers faintly. I open my eyes. She's still here. Still smiling. The air floods out of my lungs.

"Did you sleep okay?" she asks.

"My arm did."

Confusion skims across her features, and then she claps a hand over her mouth. "Oh god, I'm so sorry. I squashed your arm, didn't I?"

"A little," I reply. "But I'll let you make it up to me."

"Uh-oh, something tells me you want the whole nine yards, Brooke Davis style."

I tap a finger against my chin, pretending to mull over it. A delicious little image pops into my head, but I push it aside. I don't want to send her scurrying off this soon. Besides, if I have my way, strawberries and cream and that little silk blindfold I have will be put to good use in the not too distant future.

"I'll let you off easy this time, but let's hold you to an I.O.U., just in case I feel a little—"

"Frisky?" she interjects, cocking an eyebrow playfully.

Clearly, I've underestimated her.

"Don't tempt me," I warn her mockingly.

"Wouldn't dream of it," she says, her voice low in her throat as she tilts her chin and gives me a quick kiss.

--

We touch down at the airport at 10 PM. Aside from that bitch who refused to give us any alcohol, the plane ride was uneventful—unless you count the dirty looks that were thrown our way. Peyton's handling everything surprisingly well. Heck, I'm feeling calmer than I've been in months. I've got half a suitcase full of new clothes, an even tan and Peyton's hand resting possessively on my hip. What more could a girl want?

We grab our luggage and start strolling toward the line of taxis waiting outside.

"You know, I can just call the driver and—"

Peyton's hand jerks away from my body. Following the line of panic in her eyes, I notice a man standing a few feet away. He has brown hair. Curly, like Peyton's.

"Shit," Peyton hisses under her breath. "He's not supposed to be here."

The man starts stalking toward us and for a moment I wonder if he's going to knock me over. I've never seen him look so furious before. Okay, time for some damage control.

"Mr. Sawyer, we—"

"Peyton, you said you were on a field trip. I can't believe you went all the way to California without telling me!"

Wait, how does he know we were there? "Actually, Mr. Sawyer—"

He cuts me off again, his eyes flashing. And this time, his glare is trained on me. "Your parents traced your credit card to a store in Santa Monica."

I open my mouth to say something, anything that will placate this crazy man who is _so _not the Mr. Sawyer I remember. Before I can eke out a word, he jumps right in again.

"Your parents may be okay with you flying all around the country without telling them, but I don't want my daughter doing the same."

"Dad …" Peyton says softly. "It's not Brooke's fault."

A twitch and he's facing Peyton again, looking like he's going to start foaming at the mouth any minute now. A twinge of anger scrapes at my nerves. Even if he is Peyton's dad, he shouldn't be going all psycho on us. And I really don't like the way he's getting ready to yell at her.

"I don't care whose fault it is," he says through gritted teeth. "I thought you were responsible enough to let me know beforehand. Just because I'm out of town …" He trails off and the muscles in his face relax just a little bit. "Is this _because_ I was out of town? Did you want me to stay?"

Peyton sighs and steps closer to him. "No, Dad, it's not. It was—it was a bad decision. I'm sorry."

"I'm sorry for bringing up the stupid plan," I say quietly.

As Mr. Sawyer lifts a tired hand to his face, Peyton gives my hand a quick squeeze and whispers, "Don't be."

But then he looks up and Peyton drops my hand.


	6. Crashing Back Down

**A/N: Thank you to those who reviewed! You're pushing me to continue writing this. However, saying nothing but "ewww, gross" is not particularly helpful. _Constructive criticism_ is always appreciated, but if you simply don't like the material because it involves two girls being more than friends, then don't read it.**

"If _x_ is 25 and _y_ is 18 …"

If _x _is 25 and _y_ is 18 and pigs can fly and grass is purple, well, it changes nothing. My dad's still acting weird, Lucas is probably still shooting daggers at the back of my head and I'd still take a lobotomy over math any day.

"Ms. Sawyer?"

"Huh?"

"What's the answer?"

What's the answer to what? I glance up at the board and down at my sketch of a pair of hands. No dice.

"I'm sorry, I couldn't figure it out."

"Have you gotten your eyes checked recently, Ms. Sawyer?"

"Uh, no …"

"Well I suggest you do that because I just wrote the answer on the board."

The class snickers, predictably enough, but I really couldn't care less. Math will be over in five minutes and Brooke and I have plans to be avoid everyone by ensconcing ourselves in some comfy armchairs and loading up on caffeine.

The bell rings and everyone flees the classroom. Mr. Langley shoots me one final look of disapproval as he slithers out of class. I ease myself out of my seat and work out the kinks in my neck. The sounds of chairs scraping against the floor and papers rustling dies down within a minute. Suddenly, the door swings open.

"Hey, girlfriend," Brooke says, somehow managing to inject a lethal amount of come-hither sauciness into those three harmless syllables.

Stifled laughter works its way up my throat as Brooke begins sauntering towards me, hips swaying and lips promising all kinds of presents. Oh, this is going to be good.

"Something tells me you've been masterminding this all throughout Spanish," I remark.

"All day, actually. I got busted because of you. You and your gorgeous eyes …" She places her hands on my hips. "And your lips …" She leaves a trail of teasing kisses all the way up my neck. I duck my head to try and still her movement, but she evades me, those full lips so achingly close to mine. She pulls me toward the front of the room, claiming every inch of oversensitized skin on my throat, but never allowing me to touch her lips. Then she breaks off and hoists herself onto the teacher's table.

At the sight of what must be my lust-filled gaze, she laughs and hooks a finger through a belt loop on my jeans, pulling me closer. She gives another tug, pressing my knees against the table and clapping her tanned legs around the back of mine.

"I wish you weren't wearing these," she purrs, rubbing her bare legs against the rough fabric of my jeans.

She slides her hands up my arms, never taking her eyes off my face. "And this …" Her fingers slip under the front of my jacket and she pulls it back slowly, leaning in to nibble on my bottom lip.

"I've never done this before, Brooke," I protest weakly.

Shaking her head, Brooke traces her finger across my jawline, mock disappointment playing in her eyes. "Oh, Peyton, I have so much to teach you."

My jacket falls to the floor with a bang.

I jerk up. Lucas is standing in the doorway.

--

This is _not_ happening. Lucas did not just walk in on us.

And Peyton does _not_ look like her world just came crashing down around her.

--

So this is what an eternity feels like. An eternity of not breathing, not moving, not knowing what to do next.

Lucas's eyes bore into mine, demanding answers I can't give.

I feel nauseated and disjointed, like all my body parts aren't where they're supposed to be. My heart is somewhere in my gut and my tongue is in my throat. And my brain … it's anywhere but here.

Brooke drops to the floor. The sound of her heels hitting the linoleum sends a tremor up my spine. I blink.

Lucas swallows, his pained gaze darting back and forth between me and Brooke. Then he slams the door shut and disappears.

--

"Peyton," I venture softly.

I grasp her hand, intertwining our fingers. I give a gentle squeeze but her hand just hangs limply in mine.

"It's okay …"

She pivots sharply, retracting her hand. "It's not okay."

Her lips are drawn into a thin line, her eyes dark with frustration. My heart sinks at the sight of her looking so lost. I reach out to give her a reassuring touch, but she flinches.

"I can't do this, Brooke. Not now."

"What do you mean?"

"This. Us. I just can't deal right now," she mumbles, averting her eyes.

Panic worms its way into voice and my throat tightens up. "We'll deal with it, okay? We'll fix this," I blurt out, my voice coming out high-pitched with desperation. I make another feeble attempt to hold on to her, but she writhes and backpedals.

"I'm sorry," she says, her own voice cracking.

And then she runs out, like she hasn't just destroyed my world.

--

"Luke!"

My legs are burning, but I'm pumping them as hard as I can. I have to reach him before he leaves.

I don't know what is that's slowing him down, but it's working. I catch up to him in the middle of the parking lot. Gasping for air, I struggle to yell out his name again. I can barely hear myself, but he does, and he whips around. My feet hit the ground one last time.

"Luke, I … Can we talk, please?"

"There's nothing to talk about, Peyton," he says flatly. "It's not like you were cheating on me."

For a moment, I'm fumbling for words. He's right. We're not even together, so why do I feel like I have to apologise?

"No, no," I say, more to myself than to him. "But what you saw … It just happened. It doesn't mean anything." Why am I saying this? It _did _mean something. Everything with Brooke has meant something, something more than I can describe.

"It's none of my business," he says stiffly.

I stare up at him helplessly. I don't know why I'm doing this. God, am I embarrassed?

"You don't owe me anything," Lucas says, still in that same, dead tone.

"I just feel like I should apologise," I say quietly.

Lucas sighs, running a hand over his face. "Do you want to talk?" he asks reluctantly.

Fighting the urge to cringe, I look up into his eyes. "Yeah."

"We can go grab some coffee."

Coffee. With Lucas. With Brooke. With no one. My mouth fills with bitterness.

--

"What do you want?"

"What do you mean, what do I want?"

"It's as simple as that. What do you want? Do you want Brooke?"

I cringe inwardly at the bluntness of his question.

Across the table, Lucas stares at me. I can tell he's trying to appear apathetic, but I can detect the dull glow of something else behind his stony gaze.

"Do you?" he repeats.

Closing my eyes and wrapping my hands around the steaming mug of coffee, I feel adrift all over again. Floating on my back in the middle of the Atlantic. No way to tell where land is.

Unless I let Brooke into the picture.

Letting Brooke in would mean giving myself direction. Neither one of us can tell where we'll end up, but I know this much is true—that Brooke gives me purpose. All I need to do is look at her and I'll know where to go. All I need to do is hold her hand and she'll take us somewhere. She'll never let go of me, even if it means fighting against the current until we're both beaten and bruised. It may not seem like it sometimes, but Brooke has always been the stronger one.

I open my eyes slowly. "I think I do."

A sad smile breaks across Lucas's face. "Then tell her that."

"It's not so easy."

"It's not. But what's worse—fighting through this alone or fighting through it with Brooke?"

Tears sting my eyes, but I manage to keep them from falling. I always knew Luke was a great guy, but I didn't think even he could be this selfless.

I meet his eyes, holding his gaze. He gives me a friendly smile and I echo it. Maybe things between us will be all right now. We can be friends.

"Thank you," I whisper.


	7. Running Uphill

The final beep ricochets dully through my head and I lift my cellphone to my ear. Please pick up. Each ring of Brooke's cellphone sends a stab through my body.

"Hi!"

"Brooke—"

"You've reached—"

I click the phone off. Where is she?

10:12 flashes on the screen, looking as cold as I feel in its mechanical blue glow. I snatch my keys off the dresser and head out. I have to find her before I lose my nerve.

"Peyton?"

Not again. My dad's sitting on the couch, staring at the blank TV screen. He shifts, fixing me with a wary stare, clasping and unclasping his hands.

"Where are you going?"

"Uh, I have to get some notes from Haley."

"Oh. Is it important?"

"Yeah, I've got a test on Friday."

Standing up, he makes an unintelligible sound. I'm treading on eggshells. Forcing myself to outlast this staring competition, I face him as bravely as I can, trying not to reveal anything as I stare back into the same eyes that I've seen in the mirror for seventeen years. He opens his mouth, then snaps it shut.

"I'll be back really quick," I promise.

"Okay," he concedes, waving me out the door.

I dash out to my car, wondering what the hell I'm going to say to Brooke.

--

I pull up to Brooke's house in record time. Her mammoth of a house is illuminated only by the porch light. Great. The Davises are AWOL. I press the doorbell anyway. It reverberates throughout the giant skeleton, coming back to my ears in a low, mournful groan.

I double back to my car. There's only one place where she can be, and I'm not sure if I'm going to be glad to find her there. I just hope I reach her before she's completely gone.

--

Bump-and-grind music and blinding lights assault my senses the moment I step into the club. Squinting against the pulsing blues and pinks, I can only make out nameless, faceless silhouettes rubbing up against each other on the dance floor. I guess we really are the same in the dark—horny and desperate for human contact.

Instinctively, I manoeuvre over to the bar, risking bodily injury as I dodge elbows and kicking feet. Sure enough, at the end of the counter is Brooke. And a group of beefy frat boys.

"You lose! Take it off!" Brooke yells, gesturing wildly at the biggest guy in the group.

"Aw, no fair. You haven't lost a single round," he growls back.

"Suck it up, big boy. No one beats me at this game."

As I walk over to the rowdy bunch, my heart rate threatens to overtake the pounding beats emanating from the club's speakers. I have to get her out of here.

"Hey, what are you guys playing?" I ask, keeping my tone light. As difficult as it is to see Brooke smashed out of her mind, it's easier to deal with her when she's wasted than when she's sober. I just need to play along and steal her away the first chance I get.

Brooke giggles at me and pulls me into the middle of the group. "We're playing strip poker," she says, giving me a sloppy hug.

"But there are no cards," I observe.

"Exactly!" She hiccups and grins hugely, swaying a little on the bar stool. I step up next to her and she leans heavily against me, too inebriated to even sit up straight. Her breath reeks of alcohol.

"Brooke, we need to get out of here."

"Not now! Rob's gonna take his shirt off," she whines.

Rob tugs at the hem of his too-tight tee, twisting and struggling to get it over his head. His torso is red and hairy, and his friends are cackling like idiots. This is not what we need right now.

"Okay, we're leaving."

Slipping my arm around Brooke's waist, I half-carry, half-drag her out of the sweaty group. Brooke does her part by screaming at the people on the dance floor. She chokes on a laugh and starts coughing, which only serves to make her laugh even more. I haven't seen her this out of it in a long time.

"We're almost there," I coax, staggering all the way to my car.

"Please, Peyton, I can walk," she says, wriggling away from me. She walks straight into the car door, slamming her hip against it. Then she just topples over and slides into the passenger seat.

Weighed down by dread, I slip into the driver's seat. I look over at Brooke, at her unfocused eyes and her boneless limbs, at this alcohol-aided act which she has obviously, painfully put up to block out reality. To block _me_ out. Guilt coils around my chest as Brooke lets out another meaningless slur. She's drunk because of me.

"Behind those hazel eyes … Swallow me and spit me out …" She pauses, a lopsided grin forming on her lips. "Swallow and spit," she giggles.

God, Brooke. Why did you have to go so far? Why did _I_ let you get so far?

"It's so pretty tonight," Brooke remarks, staring at nothing in particular. "I want to dance. Dance with me, Peyton?"

"Not now, Brooke."

The void in my heart splits open a little wider when I turn to her. A careless smile adorns her face, belying the betrayal I know is eating away at her.

"I'm sorry," I say, dropping my head back against the headrest. "I'm sorry I'm not braver."

"But you're _not_ a beaver."

"Nevermind."

--

"Come on, Brooke, where are your keys?"

My shoulders are straining with Brooke's weight and she's too uncoordinated to find her own keys. I almost dislocate a shoulder trying to keep her upright while fumbling around in her purse.

"I think they're in my pants," she says, looking a little greener than when we just left the club. "Oh no, wait, I think they're in the tiny pocket in my purse."

Suppressing a groan, I lean her against the front door and rifle through her purse one more time. Finally. I unlock the door and we hobble inside. She doesn't protest as I lead her to her bedroom.

"Whoo, I'm done for tonight," she declares, flopping tummy-down onto her bed.

"Really? Because you look like you could still down a few more shots," I say sarcastically. I know I'm to blame for Brooke's behaviour, but with everything that's going on, I feel more than a little frustrated.

Brooke grumbles into a pillow and I sit on the edge of her bed for ten minutes, listening to every senseless noise until silence permeates the room at last. I roll her onto her back before heading to the kitchen to grab some aspirin and a bottle of water. I set the pills and the bottle down on her bedside table, right next to the cluster of photographs.

Brooke and Lucas. Brooke and me. Brooke, Lucas and me. Brooke laughing, Brooke making a crazy face. Brooke laughing _with_ me, Brooke making a crazy face right beside me.

Holding the largest frame in my hand, I compare it with Brooke's sleeping form. I can't decide whether she looks better in real life or in photographs.

The light from outside filters through the curtains, casting a soft glow on her body. The tiny star on the end of her necklace is cradled in the shallow dip behind her collarbone. Her chest rises and falls slowly, evenly, and I remember all the little things she's taught me over the years, like some yoga technique about breathing to cleanse your mind or something else I found just as hilarious. She's taught me how to dress, how to make boys want me, how to pick out the perfect shade of eyeshadow. She's taught me how to deal with loss, life and everything in between. For someone who's supposedly the most self-centred girl in town, Brooke's given me more than I care to count.

So why can't I do the same for her? Why can't I just give myself over, completely, wholly, every nerve and every cell and every inch of me, to her?

Brooke sighs in her sleep, rolling over onto her side and clutching the pillow I always use when I sleep over. I brush a lock of hair away from her eyes and marvel at the delicate curve of her nose and her perfectly angled jawline. I want nothing more than to crawl into bed with her, nuzzle up against her warm skin and never leave this sanctuary.

But I can't, so I wrench myself away from Brooke and all that's safe, fighting against my most basic instinct.

--

Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow.

_Ow_.

Note to self: When compared with a 220-pound guy, you _are_ a lightweight.

My room is saturated with sunlight and … are those birds I hear chirping? What—does the world have some sort of vendetta against me? Is this Breaking Brooke Day?

I peel my eyelids open a smidge. Two little pills and a bottle of water are on my bedside, thank god. I swallow the pills and chug back some water, making sure not to open my eyes. What time is it, anyway? I don't think mornings are supposed to feel this warm.

Flinching, I manage to catch a glimpse of the clock. It's one in the afternoon.

"Shit, school!"

The sudden motion sends a wave of nausea rumbling through me. I slowly lower myself back down onto the mass of pillows. I guess the girls are just going to have to deal with that new cheer routine without me.

Anyway, I'm not sure if I can deal with anyone right now. Definitely not Lucas. And Peyton? I can't tell what she wants. For the first time since I've known her, I feel like I can't get a read on her. When we were in California, she was all too happy with the smoochies. But now that we're back in Tree Hill, she's being totally paranoid and moody. And people think _I'm_ the one who worries about what people think. Way to prove them wrong, P. Sawyer.

My stomach churns uneasily. Fantastic. I should really try to remember that the aftermath of an endless series of tequila shots is not nearly as fun as drinking them. But you know what they say: When the going gets tough, the tough go shopping. Just because I drank myself silly last night doesn't mean that I'm giving up. I'm going to war … right after I get this jackhammer out of my head.

--

The doorbell barely has time to echo before the door swings open. Both our smiles die instantly.

"Mr. Sawyer."

"Brooke."

"Um, is Peyton in?"

"She's in the shower."

Standing on tiptoes, I try to peer down the hallway. I can hear the faint strains of a wailing guitar. I make a move to step over the threshold, but this new and not-so-improved Mr. Sawyer stands his ground. Fine. I'll just have to drop and go.

"Can you make sure she gets these?"

He narrows his eyes at me, then looks down his nose at the bouquet of lilies and the bow-topped box in my arms. Oh, shit.

"They're from a secret admirer." I smile brightly, like a girl who's _not_ trying to hit on his daughter. "He's too shy to talk to Peyton, so he asked me for help," I add, trying to keep the babbling in check.

"They look nice," he responds dryly, scepticism practically dripping from every syllable.

I sneak another peek at the box and the flowers. They're pretty. _Too_ pretty to have been picked out by your garden-variety high school guy.

"Of course. Brandon wouldn't know a flower from a twig. I picked them out," I sass back.

A rigid non-smile stretches taut across his features. He holds out his hands. "I'll give them to her."

"Thanks!" I chirp, hauling ass away from Satan's front door. What is _up_ with that man? I hope he hasn't locked Peyton in a dungeon, because I need her to get my note—my last resort. Goldilocks has one week to mull over that. If she doesn't bite, I don't think I'll have enough in me to keep trying. One last shot, Peyton. Take it. Take me.


	8. Little by Little, Part I

**A/N: I realise I've gotten some details messed up, like the fact that Mr. Sawyer is Peyton's adoptive father. Oops. I guess I never really followed the show. I was just watching it for Breyton. :P So, sorry about those little screw-ups.**

"Secret admirer?" I ask tentatively, stepping into the living-room. There's a huge bouquet of lilies and an expensive-looking box on the coffee table.

Dad recoils, looking embarrassed. That's weird.

"Uh, actually, they're yours," he says gruffly. "They smell like perfume … What kind of boy …"

I decide to ignore his rambling and take the gifts from him and return to my room, locking the door just in case. The flowers are stunning. My stomach feels a little queasy. I have a very good guess as to who bought these; they're the equivalent of a designer dress, and there's only one person I know who has such expensive taste. The bow comes undone easily and I pull the lid off. Inside is a smaller box—a shoebox, and on top of that, an envelope. Lifting the shoebox and the envelope, I notice two rectangles of paper at the bottom on the larger box.

An unexpected smile sneaks up on me. Our plane tickets to California. Scrawled on one of them in handwriting as familiar as my own is a single word: _Remember?_

--

I think the whole school knows. I bet they're all pointing and snickering behind my back, wondering why Peyton and I aren't hanging out with each other anymore. Oh, I bet they all think we're having another Lucas drama. Nope, residents of Tree Hill High, we're just coming to terms with the tiny, tiny issue of us possibly being more than friends. The snuggly, kissy kind of more-than-friends.

In the past three days, Peyton hasn't so much as smiled at me. I've caught a nervous glance or two, but that's about it. Cheerleading practices have been a lesson in awkward touching and even more awkward silences. I know she's read the letter; I can see it in the confusion and indecision clouding her eyes. But I've said my piece, and if Peyton wants to stop lying to herself some time this century, she'll come around. Otherwise I'm going down in history this Friday, and it's not the kind of history I'd want to remember.

"Brooke?" Haley taps my shoulder. She smiles at me, looking almost sympathetic, then asks me if I'm okay.

I look down at the uneaten food on my lunch tray and the hulking presence of no one sitting opposite me. Talk about pathetic.

"Yeah, I'm fine."

"Really? You look a little … down."

"I've got some stuff on my mind."

"You want to talk about it? Nathan's got some test to make up for, so I'm all yours."

Haley slides into the seat opposite mine, still wearing that same, amiable smile. Maybe I should get a little advice from her. After all, I don't know anyone else as levelheaded as she is.

"Okay, I've got some issues with a friend," I begin, racking my brain for a way to broach the subject without spilling all the beans.

"Peyton?"

"No!" I exclaim, a little too loudly.

"Oookay. Who?"

"Someone. The name's not important."

Haley laughs. "You're being totally weird about this. What's up?"

"The thing is … I mean, how … What if this person is your friend and suddenly everything changes, and—"

"Whoa, Brooke, slow down."

"How did you and Lucas stay friends without ever getting involved?" I blurt out.

She makes a face, looking at me like I've just sprouted two heads. "We never thought about it. We're just friends. A guy and a girl _can_ just be friends, you know." She giggles. "Okay, not that _you_ would really know. Is this what you're so upset about?"

I shift my gaze down to my tray, fiddling with my fork. If you only knew, Haley. "Sort of."

"I never thought you'd be so torn up about being friends with a guy. Are you sure you're the same Brooke? The one I remember would've been ecstatic about taking things to the next level."

"Well, not this time," I say tersely.

At my change in demeanour, Haley instinctively reverts to empathy. "This is such a cliché, but you just have to be honest. It's not fair to you—or him—if you just keep this all bottled up."

"That's the thing. I've been honest. I've said everything I could possibly say."

"And he's not responding?"

"Not exactly, but to be fair, it's kind of confusing. Like, calculus, science and why Britney married Kevin confusing."

"Maybe he needs a little time. You just have to be patient."

Across the cafeteria, Peyton settles down at a table with Lucas. I look away. "I really hope you're right."

--

"So how's things going?" Lucas asks.

I shrug, noting that he still looks less than enthusiastic. I guess I can't blame him. I wouldn't be doing cartwheels and backflips if I were in his shoes.

"You figure things out yet?"

"I'm getting there."

He just forces a smile and picks up a french fry.

Brooke's at the other end of the room. I didn't have to see her to know she's there. I can feel the heat from her questioning eyes trained on my back.

"She basically gave me an ultimatum. She said I have to decide by this Friday."

"Friday?" Lucas's eyebrows pop up. "But that's—"

"Yeah."

"Brooke's never been good at being patient," he offers.

"Makes you wonder how anyone can deal with her, huh?"

"I guess when you really like someone, you overlook their flaws."

"We're really good at that."

"The best."

I think of Brooke's quirks and her unbelievable self-assuredness and her impossible demands and I think, how could anyone _not_ love her? She's Brooke. She drives you crazy with want and just when you're about to break, she dangles the carrot a little farther, that teasing gleam in her eyes giving you barely enough breath to try one last time. Maybe she's just not used to being on the receiving end of these things. I've been so wrapped up in how I feel about her and my own selfish dilemma that I haven't even thought about how I affect her. How my inability to take her hand and face the world has been tearing down her confidence. I can't believe I've been so self-absorbed that I've forgotten how much not knowing, not having an answer, hurts. It's my turn to make a move.

"Need a drink?" Lucas's voice brings me out of my reverie.

I turn my head, glimpsing Brooke at her table with Haley. "A shot of courage would be nice."


	9. Little by Little, Part II

_**11:00 AM**_

"So, who are you going with this year?"

"I don't know if I'm going."

"Why not? Isn't this the highlight of your school year?"

Shrugging, I shift in my seat and pretend to pick at a piece of lint on my shirt.

"What about that boy, your secret admirer? What's his name—Brad?"

"Who?"

"The one who gave you the flowers."

A word teeters on the end of my tongue, but I catch it before it does any real damage. "He's okay, I guess. Not really my type."

Exhaling slowly, Dad braces his elbows against his knees, leaning forward in an attempt to catch my eye. "You've been cooped up for a couple of days already. Is everything all right?"

"Yep," I lie, flashing a smile for his benefit.

"You sure?" He looks at me dubiously. I hate it when he does that thing with his eyes, like he's searching for an honest answer by piercing right through me with them.

"Yeah, I'm just a little stressed out."

"Well I think you should go tonight. Have some fun. Maybe you can get to know Brad … but, you know, don't let him get to know you _too_—"

"God, Dad! Can we please not have this conversation?"

He presses his lips together, looking sheepish. "Okay. I just think you should go."

"I'll think about it."

It's _all_ I've been thinking about.

_**1:30 PM**_

I'm waxed, exfoliated and polished down to my tippy-toes. In another lifetime, Peyton and I would be going through this whole thing together. We'd be in my room, tossing shoes and earrings around. But today, it's just me and my endless closet with no Peyton in sight. It's 1:30. I've had one message from Haley, two from my parents and countless others. I can't remember what a single one of them says. There's only one person I'm waiting for, and it doesn't look like she's about to burn bridges or cross oceans to get to me. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't a little worried about showing up with only my shadow tonight.

_**3:00 PM**_

It's too late to go. My hair's not done and I haven't even removed the chipped polish on my toenails.

Sitting down on my bed, I can see the dress I picked out with Brooke months ago hanging in my closet. It would be so easy to just put it on and go. It would be so hard.

Does Brooke even have a backup plan?

I feel a pang as I picture her walking up the steps to those huge double doors alone. For the first time, Brooke Davis would be showing up dateless. I can barely begin to wonder how mortified she will be.

_**4:25 PM**_

"Sorry we couldn't make it back earlier, honey," my mom coos, kissing me on both cheeks.

"It's okay," I say. Who cares if they're here, anyway? I don't know why they suddenly decided that they needed to see me off tonight.

"Did your date reserve a limo?" my dad asks, fiddling with his cufflinks and raising his eyebrows as if the limo is the most vital part of tonight.

"Um, it's a—a different plan tonight," I stutter. "No limo."

He scoffs, shaking his head. "Is this boy even aware of whom he's dating?"

"Dad—"

"Don't worry, sweetheart. I'll just call Peter and he'll have a limo ready for you two."

"Really, Dad, it's not necessary."

"Then how are you going to get there? A _cab?_" he remarks snidely, shooting me an incredulous look before picking up the phone. Well, turns out the hauteur is genetic after all.

"He's really low-key," I lie.

"That doesn't mean you have to slum it, sweetie," my mom pipes up. "Is this boy impoverished or something?"

"No, he's not," I retort sharply. And it's not a boy, I think to myself.

"Well, that's settled. Peter will bring the limo over and you can tell your date to come straight here," my dad announces, hanging up the phone.

This is turning into one insane game of lying. "He's not coming over. We agreed to meet at school."

My dad's jaw hits the floor. "He's not coming over?"

"That's not very … gentlemanly of him," my mom adds, frowning.

An exasperated sigh cuts through the air. "It's the 21st century, Mom. We're going to meet there and that's it. I'll take the limo if you want me to, but I'm not asking him to come over here so you two can grill him about his household income and his spending habits." The words tumble out of my mouth in a rush of annoyance. I'm great at lying, but if I keep this up, my head is going to explode and Mom'll have a hell of a time steam-cleaning the boiling blood out of the sofas.

_**5:10 PM**_

That dress is taunting me.

_**6:00 PM**_

Shoes: check. Earrings: check. Necklace: check. Makeup: check. Hair: check. Keys: check. Fake ID: check. Mints: check. Date: pending.

_**7:35 PM**_

Thank you, whoever invented tinted windows. I can hear the distant roar of laughter and the thumping music. It seems like a million miles away. Who would've thought it: me huddled up alone in a limo on prom night—completely sober, by the way. Too sober.

"Got anything good in here, Pete?" I ask, even though I've already scoured the entire backseat in search of anything with the tiniest drop of alcohol.

"'Fraid not, Miss."

Sighing, I lean back against the luxurious seat, squinting against the darkened glass and wondering if Peyton is on her way here. Jitters shoot up and down my body, sending my foot into a rhythmic tapping. Come on, Goldilocks. You're way past fashionably late.

_**7:37 PM**_

A knock sounds on the far window. My heart stops and I barely dare to hope.

Please don't let this be my mind playing tricks on me. Please let it be Peyton. Please let it be real. Slowly, I swivel around in my seat, every muscle in my body straining in an effort to move as carefully as possible, so I don't destroy this already tenuous fragment of reality.

Two hands are pressed up against the glass and a pair of searching eyes is glancing back and forth. Peyton Elizabeth Sawyer.

I open the door on my side with shaky hands, stepping out into the cool night air. Everything feels like it's moving in slo-mo as we finally walk up to each other.

I can't tell if I'm smiling or gaping, but all I know is I can't resist the urge to touch her. "Come here."

_**7:38 PM**_

An overwhelming flood of emotions surges against my chest as I fall into Brooke's arms. She wraps her arms around my body, gripping me so tightly, as if too close is not close enough. I rest my cheek against her shoulder, breathing her in. I move my mouth to the base of her throat and her heart beats a heavy cadence against my lips. Everything that I've silenced for the past few weeks bubbles to the surface, burning my eyes and pressing me closer to Brooke. To her soft, warm skin; the smooth expanse of her bare back; the graceful, delicately carved lineaments of her entire body.

My breath hitches as I fight to stave off the tears. It's always been Brooke. Through Nathan, through Lucas, through Jake, it's always been her. It's always been her hands that hold my voice steady; her words that keep me from falling apart. It's _still_ her.

"I've missed you so much."

She pulls back, just enough to look at me. "I've missed you too, P. Sawyer."

Her deep brown eyes seem to ignite from within, incandescent with every indescribable need and want coursing through my own veins. She lifts a hand to my cheek, brushing away a lone tear I didn't realise had spilled over.

"What took you so long?" she asks softly.

I shake my head, but Brooke lets the question go unanswered. Her dimples make an appearance as she glances down at my feet.

"You wore them."

"Yeah, but how did you—"

"Don't worry. Daddy bought them for me, but they were a bit too big." Her eyes crinkle at the corners as her smile grows even wider. "They look gorgeous on you."

"Thank you," I say, clutching her hand in mine, hoping to convey what words cannot.

A tilt of the chin and a flutter of the eyelashes, and Brooke is leaning forward, drowning all my fears as she presses her lips to mine. It's slow and reassuring, telling me that everything is forgiven. The cool tips of her fingers trail up to my neck, sending a wave of goosebumps over my skin. I pull her closer, every part of my body moving naturally to accommodate hers, to fit every piece together seamlessly, to make up for all this lost time. My fingers tug at her dress. It's too much distance between us. Brooke feels it too, and she claims my lips with a hungry desperation that fuels my own desire.

Too short of a time passes before we finally succumb to our need for air.

"I've taught you well," she quips, her breathing ragged.

_**8:00 PM**_

I have no idea how long we've been standing out here in the parking lot, but I feel like I'm home at last. Peyton's thumb is drawing circles on the back of my hand, and I'm almost surprised at how little time it took for us to miss each other this way. My lips are throbbing madly and my hands are still tingling with the urge to touch her, but for the moment, I content myself with basking in the quiet elation between us. Who knew that it didn't have to take sex to feel that blissful afterglow?

A change in the music from inside the building reminds me what we came here for. I hold out my hand.

"Ready to go inside?"

The happy little smile on Peyton's face falters. "I'm not … I'm not ready."

"But it's prom night. It's customary to dance and do typical prom things."

"I'm sorry."

Seems like she's saying sorry a lot these days.

But before I can say anything, she cuts in. "I know I've been the worst person lately, but I'm not ready to face all those people."

"Peyton—"

"But I also don't want this night to be for nothing."

She opens the door of the limo and leans in, slipping back out several moments later. This time, she offers her hand.

The sonorous pull of violins flows out of the limo, reaching into the darkness around us.

"Dance with me?"

I place my hand in hers and our bodies are drawn together again. As we take our first few steps together, I feel weightless, as if the ordeals that we had to go through have finally been taken off my shoulders and now we can just float to wherever we want to go. Maybe Peyton's not ready to face the crowd yet, but she's trying, and this is a move in the right direction. If not tonight, or tomorrow, then maybe next year. Or the year after next. Someday, Peyton and I will dance for the world, and it will watch and beam, because even if we stumble and fall along the way, we will overcome it all with each other.

As the music swirls around us, carried by the breeze, I lift my head and plant a kiss on her cheek. She gazes down at me, those breath-taking eyes of hers finally, completely opening up to me. Everything in her, everything about her, fills my senses to dizzying heights. Her pain and her happiness are indistinguishable from my own. She smiles.

My beautiful, messed-up Peyton, she smiles.

* * *

**A/N: So ends my little trial run of writing Brooke and Peyton. I know it's kinda abrupt, but this was really just a test run. The first few chapters were a little difficult, but I think I got into the groove of things towards the end. I'm actually reluctant to let it go, but if real life doesn't act like a total bitch, I might plan a sequel or something else. Thank you for the reviews! **


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